


The Captain's Skirts

by aralias



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Pretending To Be Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Hornblower is disguised as Bush's wife for reasons that are not really that important. Bush is conflicted about his feelings on this, particularly after Hornblower kisses him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Captain's Skirts

**Author's Note:**

> gave me the prompt 'HH/WB crossdressing' in the 'assign a cliché to a pairing and then just describe what would happen...' meme. I liked this idea so much that I then actually wrote it... and also included about three or four other popular clichés for good measure. 
> 
> My Hornblower/Bush love is all books-related, but it's been so long since I read them that my dialogue and characterisation (for Hornblower at least) is influenced by the movies instead. So... this is 'set' in a sort of awful mixture of the two canons. Also, even though I want to be booksverse, I just love movie!Pellew! So... he's there. But it's booksverse. (Sorry).
> 
> This is pretty much my first Hornblower fic. That is why it has so many issues.

“I still don’t understand why we have to stay here,” Bush grumbles as he and Hornblower are shown into a guest suite. “We have what we were sent here to acquire” – proof of the duke’s treachery against King George in both eyewitness account and incriminating letter now tucked into Hornblower’s garter: a technique, he says, he learned from an old friend. 

Bush tries not to think about Hornblower’s garters. It is not something he has ever prepared for. He has prepared for this mission – indeed, for the past several weeks, he has done little but practice the behaviours and manners of an exalted Post Captain in order to play his part. But he forgot, during that time, that however hard it was to remember which fork to use first at a dinner, it would be five times as hard to say Hornblower was his wife without colouring, and to stand still with Hornblower’s hand resting on his arm. Hornblower, naturally, has an even more difficult part to play, but he plays it to perfection. Bush has spent the evening watching him flirting with the duke and laughing with court ladies. 

The door shuts behind them.

“It’s good form,” Hornblower explains in answer to his earlier question. He pulls his gloves off, revealing his long elegant hands. “The alternative is that we explain that we wish to leave in the middle of the night, which would undoubtedly arise His Grace’s suspicions. And as Admiral Pellew was very clear that we not arise His Grace’s suspicions, we must stay.”

Bush is staring at the room, which is both more lavish that he could have dreamed of and terribly under furnished in one vital department. Hornblower touches his shoulder and Bush tries not to jump. 

“Is something wrong, Bush?”

“No, sir,” Bush says. “It’s just– there’s only one bed.” A very large four-poster bed, undoubtedly more expensive that everything he owns, but still just one bed. 

“Well observed,” Hornblower says. “I sent a letter yesterday, informing His Grace’s staff that we were an usually affectionate couple, and that there would therefore be no need for him to assign me a lady’s maid, as you could assist me in dressing and undressing. I assume this instruction has also been reflected in the sleeping arrangements.” 

Bush looks at him with poorly disguised horror.

“Of course, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Hornblower says quickly. “I’m very happy–”

“ _I’ll_ sleep on the floor,” Bush says. 

“No, I insist–”

“ _Please,”_ Bush says. “We may be wearing funny clothes, sir, but you’re still my captain.” Because he has had too much to drink he considers adding, “And I’d be no gentleman if I let my wife sleep on the floor.” It is the kind of jest he thinks he might get away with, but it is probably best that Hornblower speaks before he can utter it. 

“Very well. Thank you,” Hornblower says. “I must admit my back is beginning to protest at how tightly these stays have been laced. I would have regretted my gallantry in the morning.” He smiles at Bush – a rare smile that makes Bush’s heart shudder. 

“Let me help you with–” No wording is safe, so he merely gestures at Hornblower’s outfit. "There are pins at the front, holding the bodice in place – if you take those out, I can remove the ones in the rest of the dress, where you can’t reach them.”

“I count myself lucky you have so many sisters,” Hornblower says jovially, and turns so his back is to Bush. From this angle he looks almost indistinguishable from any very tall woman, which makes it both less difficult and more to be undressing him now. Bush has seen Hornblower naked before, of course, but it is very different to be the man removing his clothes, here in this room where the servants expect them to sleep in the same bed. He feels himself growing hard against his will. 

“That is one of the reasons I chose you to accompany me on this mission,” Hornblower says. “That and I trust you not to betray me. Or to laugh at me dressed like this–”

“There’s nothing to laugh at,” Bush tells him. “You make a very convincing woman, sir.” 

_“Hm,”_ Hornblower says, perhaps not pleased with this unwise remark. Rather that compound his folly, Bush keeps silent and concentrates on the task in front of him, his large hands fumbling with the small pins as he pushes them into his own sleeve for safe keeping. 

“I’m sorry to have dragged you into this,” Hornblower says suddenly. 

“It’s nothing–”

“Admiral Pellew told me it was a very unkind thing to do to a friend.”

_Damn it all,_ Bush thinks despairingly. Sir Edward Pellew knows he is in love with his captain. Hornblower has always spoken of Pellew as an unusually perceptive man, but even so. He and Bush must have spent an hour or less in each other’s company, and yet still he knows. It must be written large in every line of his face, Bush thinks, in every word he speaks. 

“He must have known I would find the high-brow conversation at dinner beyond me,” Bush says. As he says it, he thinks: maybe this is so, and relaxes slightly.

“I do consider you a friend,” Hornblower says. 

Bush feels drunker at even this small acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he says warmly, “s-”

“William, I’m standing here in a dress and we’ve been pretending to be married all evening. I think you can call me Horatio. For the night, if nothing else, though you are free to use my name whenever you want, if we’re not on deck.”

“Thank you... _Horatio,_ ” Bush says. “I consider you–” Hornblower turns, and Bush falters, realising it was a mistake to use his name. Sir could mean anyone. He invests it with more loyalty and love when he uses it for Hornblower, but really it could be anyone. _Horatio_ is a different thing altogether and Hornblower, even Hornblower, must have heard it this time, because his expression, when he looks at Bush, is so soft. His large, expressive eyes are made more so with the black make-up he’s wearing this evening to disguise his gender. 

For a moment, Bush thinks the alcohol in his blood will get the better of him and he will have to kiss his captain or burst. But then the moment passes, and so he is taken by surprise when Hornblower takes his face in one beautiful hand and kisses him instead. Hornblower’s lips are chapped under the red paint, but full and sensuous.

Bush’s hands hover uselessly at his side as they try to work out whether it would be appropriate, or a good idea, to take Hornblower’s waist and pull him closer. Or whether it would be a better idea to stroke his face, or push him away entirely. Hornblower is kissing him, and it is by far the most incredible thing that has ever happened to him, but it is also the most terrifying. _Sir Edward knows,_ for heaven’s sake.

Hornblower pulls away. The kiss must have lasted, at most, five seconds while Bush wondered uselessly what he should do. 

“I apologise,” Hornblower says. “I must have had more wine than I realised. Do forgive me.”

“Of course,” Bush says awkwardly, both relieved and disappointed, and still hard in his tight dress breeches. 

“I get restless on land,” Hornblower explains ruefully. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though. No matter how many ladies told me how handsome my husband was tonight.”

“It’s quite all right, sir. I won’t tell anyone,” Bush says, meaning that he won’t tell anyone about the earlier kiss, but then Hornblower is pressed up against him again, and the kiss is deeper this time, and Bush realises that it would be easy to interpret his promise as a promise not to tell anyone if they spend the night in bed together. 

He can feel Hornblower’s leg pressing against his straining cock, so it would be futile to pretend this isn’t what he wants. He can also feel the press of Hornblower’s own arousal through several layers of heavy dress fabric. It is utterly surreal and unexpected and marvellous, and, this time, Bush manages to take hold of Hornblower’s thin waist, made tinier by the stays. He slides a hesitant hand downwards as Hornblower backs them towards the bed. Hornblower’s nimble fingers are already making short work of his breeches and Bush, heady with fear and arousal, begins to pull his gown up as Hornblower pushes off his coat. 

By the time they’ve reached the bed, Bush’s breeches and drawers are around his ankles and has both his hands under the layers of dress fabric. It should surprise him that this is so erotic, he thinks, as he finds the silk bow that hides the incriminating letter against Hornblower’s leg. A man dressed as a woman should be absurd, rather than wonderful – but that mixture of the masculine and the feminine is one of the things that have always attracted him to Hornblower: the daring adventurer, and the studious and careful captain with the long eyelashes. It is oddly fitting that he should be dressed like this. And, of course, being Hornblower, he has done the thing correctly – there are no drawers under his chemise, just the male genitalia Bush had tried not to look at when he’d showered on the deck and which is now hard and straining for him. He cups the captain’s balls gently and then strokes up the narrow shaft. Hornblower’s breath catches and he breaks away from the kiss. 

“Turn around,” he says, his voice thick with desire but gentle. Bush turns, and grips one of the four posts hard as Hornblower’s fingers reach inside him. They are coated with something, but Bush has no idea what Hornblower could have turned to the purpose in here. He doesn’t truly mind – he is just glad, as always, that the captain has taken control of the situation. There is a rustle of skirts behind him, and the fingers withdraw, and then the head of Hornblower’s cock pushes into him. It hurts more than he’d expected and Bush growls, digging his nails into the wooden post he’s holding. 

“William,” Hornblower says, wrapping a silk-covered arm around his torso, “are you–?”

_“Please–”_ Bush says, and grips the hand on his chest, leaning his head against the post. “Please, keep going, sir. I’m very well.”

“If you’re certain,” Hornblower says and pulls back. When he next pushes back in, it already feels better and by the time Bush’s chest begins heaving it is with arousal, not pain. He lets go of Hornblower’s hand to attend to his own twitching cock, but Hornblower has followed him down, and pushes his hand away. Long graceful fingers close around Bush and he feels almost like crying. Instead he reaches back, to rest his hand on Hornblower’s thigh, just above the stocking. The flesh is hard and smooth, rolling beneath his hand as Hornblower thrusts into him. The captain’s breath is hot and loud on the back of his neck – he must be finding it difficult with his ribs constricted, but his hips pound an insistent rhythm into Bush’s arse. It is unbearably perfect, and Bush’s orgasm, when it comes, is an almost welcome relief. He grips the bedpost, panting, as Hornblower finishes. There is a shuddering gasp and then Hornblower drops his forehead to Bush’s neck as he catches his breath, and pulls himself out. 

There is another swoop of fabric as the dress falls back into place and then the bed creaks as Hornblower sits down. Bush turns to see Hornblower frowning as he tries unsuccessfully to locate more pins in his bodice. 

“Would you like me to help you with the front as well?” Bush asks, and Hornblower smiles up at him like the sun. 

“Yes,” he says, as Bush smiles back helplessly, “thank you. I’m afraid I’ve made a complete mess of my side. I dropped the pins some time ago. We’re going to have difficulty getting me back into one of these things tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Bush says, and tries not to think about whether dressing Hornblower in women’s clothes will be as erotic as undressing him. “I’m sure I can rig up something.” 

“That’s _Horatio,”_ Hornblower says.

Bush nods and pushes another pin into his shirtsleeve. “Horatio,” he agrees with a smile. 

“And I’m afraid I can’t have my pretend husband sleeping on the floor,” Hornblower says with mock seriousness. “So, please accept a space in the bed.”

“I’d be honoured,” Bush says, and wonders whether he will ever be this happy again. 

This question is answered no more than a few hours later. In the middle of the night he wakes to find Hornblower wrapped around him, as though to keep him warm. The make-up has been wiped off, the wig removed, and the dress is folded over a chair. Hornblower, sleeping in a chemise that might as well be a nightshirt, is essentially a man again. Bush relaxes in his captain’s arms and drifts back off to sleep.


End file.
